It was at that moment that the frosted glass pane in Borden’s door shattered.
Shards fell on the floor with a clatter. A fist reached through the newly formed opening, groped for a moment, found the doorknob and turned it. The door swung open.
There were two men at the door, but the first filled the doorway so thoroughly you could barely see the second standing behind him. The bigger of the men stood well north of six feet, Tricia judged, and the resemblance to Tor Johnson didn’t end there. His face was round and pink, with no hair on it except for a pair of dense eyebrows overhanging deep-set eye sockets. Each of his fists looked like half a cinderblock, and the bloody scratches across the knuckles of the one he’d just shoved through the glass didn’t seem to bother him at all. He wore a heavy overcoat. If his face had been in shadow, he’d have been a dead ringer for the man on the cover of the book.
The other man was smaller, only an inch or two bigger than Borden, but with much the same look about him as his hulking companion. There was something of the brute in his eyes, and if his knuckles weren’t presently bleeding it was clear from all the pink scar tissue across them that they’d done their share of bleeding in the past.
“You Charley Borden?” the smaller man said.
“Me? Borden? No. Borden. No. Borden stepped out, just a moment ago.”
“That’s funny,” the smaller man said, “there’s no one in the hallway.”
“Well, it was more than a moment. What would you say, honey, five minutes?” Tricia nodded mutely. “Five minutes. Said he had to go downstairs. Said we should wait for him. So we’re, you know. Waiting.”
The two men exchanged glances.
“My wife here’s a painter,” Borden said, “isn’t that right, honey? And I’m a writer, and we came here to offer our services to Mr. Borden.” He stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Robert Ste—um—”
Damn it, Tricia thought. “Stephens,” she said, just as Borden said, “Stevenson.”
“—son,” she said.
Borden said, “That’s right, Robert Stevenson. And my wife. Louise. Say hello, Louise.”
“Hello,” Tricia said, with a little wave.
“You look like Borden,” the smaller man said.
“Really? I don’t think so. Do you think I look like him, honey?”
Tricia shrugged.
“How do you know what he looks like anyway?” Borden said. “It’s not like he’s a famous fashion plate or anything like that, he’s just one of New York’s more promising young editors...”
The big man took a creased photograph out of his coat pocket and unfolded it. It was a side-by-side mug shot, full-face on the left, profile on the right. In the photo, Borden’s hair was mussed and one of his eyes was swollen shut; the sign he was holding up in his hands said
N.Y. COUNTY 013887
BORDEN—4/28/1950
“Oh, he was much younger then,” Borden said. “Practically a kid. Looks completely different now. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely,” Tricia said. “For one thing, he doesn’t have a black eye today. Yet.”
“Oh, we’re not here to hurt him, miss,” the smaller man said, unconvincingly. “It’s not Borden we’re after. We’re here for the money.”
“What money?” Borden said.
“The money this fellow stole from us,” the smaller man said, and he nudged the other man with his elbow. “Show them the book.”
The big man stowed the mug shot in his pocket and took out a well-thumbed copy of I Robbed the Mob!, its spine cracked, its pages dog-eared. It pained Tricia to see it in such condition.
“This Mister Anonymous here,” the smaller man said, pronouncing it like it was two names, Ann an’ Amos, “is a turncoat and a rat. He took money that didn’t belong to him from a man who’d never done anything but help him, and we’re here to get it back.”
“But that’s impossible,” Tricia said. “He’s not—”
“He’s not what, miss? Not a thief? Read the book. He admits he’s been a thief all his life. Just this time he stole from the wrong person.”
Tricia hadn’t been about to say that he wasn’t a thief. She’d been about to say he wasn’t real. Which of course meant he couldn’t have stolen anything from anyone. But in that case, what the hell were these two refugees from a Robert Mitchum picture doing here?
“So, Borden,” the smaller man said, “you want to tell us who this guy is and where we can find him, and we’ll be on our way?”
“I’d love to help you, gentlemen, but I’m really not Charley Borden. I’ll be glad to give him a message, though, if you’d like to leave one.”
The smaller man snapped his fingers at the bigger one, who walked over to Borden’s desk, bent at the knees, tilted it forward slightly so he could get his fingers underneath and then turned it upside down. The telephone and the brass desk lamp went tumbling to the ground along with a pair of whiskey glasses and a rain of books. One of the drawers sprang open and more books spilled out. The one on top was titled Hot-House Honey and showed a lady wearing nothing but a gardenia behind one ear. She looked a lot like Rita.
“O-ho,” the smaller man said, bending to pick it up. “You’re a naughty boy, Borden.”
“Stevenson,” Borden said.
“Hit him,” the smaller one said.
The big guy shot out a fist and caught Borden’s lapels, pulled him close. He drew back his other fist like a piston.
“Hey,” Erin said, “what’s going on here?”
Tricia turned to see her standing in the doorway.
“What the hell are you doing?” Erin said.
“We’re having a private conversation, miss,” the smaller man said. “Run along.”
“Call the cops,” Borden shouted.
“Oh, I already did that,” Erin said. “Soon as I heard the glass break. They’ll be here any minute.”
“That’s unfortunate,” the smaller man said, looking murderously at Erin. “I suppose we’ll have to continue our conversation another time.”
At a signal from his partner, the larger one released Borden’s jacket, patted down the crumpled fabric.
“You’ll give Borden our message, right?” the smaller one said. “Tell him Mr. Nicolazzo won’t take no for an answer. Not twice.”
Borden nodded. “I’ll tell him.”
“You do that. And ladies,” the man said, “you might want to rethink the type of character you pal around with. It’s not always...safe.”
He fixed Erin with a stare that was full of unsavory implications.
“Hey,” Borden said. “What about the desk?”
“What about it... Stevenson? You’re telling us it’s not your desk, what do you care?” The man tipped his hat at Tricia, his eyes narrowing for a moment as though he half recognized her; then he shook his head and backed out through the open door, slipping Hot-House Honey into his pocket on the way.
The big guy patted Borden twice on the cheek. “Think about it,” he said, his voice like a gravel pit. He followed his partner out.
6.
The Confession
“Did you really call the police?” Tricia asked.
“Of course not,” Erin said. “I just said that to make them scram. Last thing we need here is police.”
“Why’s that?”
“Never you mind,” Erin said. “What’d you do to make those guys so mad, Charley?”
“They’re book reviewers,” he said. “The door-to-door variety.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tricia said. “This is all my fault.”
“Nonsense,” Borden said. “You mean because of the book? You just did what I told you to. If that weasel you got the story from ripped off Nicolazzo, how is that your fault? Look—” He fished around on the floor till he found a book with a toga-clad brunette on the cover, triremes sailing in the background. The title was The Bedroom Secrets of Helen of Troy. “You think Larry Block should apologize for the Trojan War? Or maybe Don Westlake should apologize to the Russkies.” He dropped Helen of Troy on top of a book called Communist Party Girls. “The guy could’ve kept his mouth shut. He didn’t have to talk to you. Now he’ll get what’s coming to him. It won’t be pretty, but you know what? Better him than us.” He bent and tried to set his desk upright again but was unable to budge it. He gave up, slapped his palms together as if he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. “All we’ve got to do is give those two fellows the man’s name and they won’t bother us again.”